


The Things We Save

by mellostopheles



Category: Deadly Premonition | Red Seeds Profile
Genre: F/F, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-23
Updated: 2020-02-23
Packaged: 2021-02-28 07:00:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,075
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22869742
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mellostopheles/pseuds/mellostopheles
Summary: York wakes up in a rented house in Greenvale, a town that's found a much-deserved sense of peace. Emily is waiting for him in the morning, Thomas is a car ride away, and everyone is happy to see him. It feels easy, because it isn't. Nothing is as easy as it should have been.
Relationships: Francis York Morgan/Emily Wyatt, Nick Cormack/Olivia Cormack, Thomas MacLaine/Francis York Morgan
Comments: 2
Kudos: 18





	The Things We Save

**Author's Note:**

> Happy ten year anniversary, Deadly Premonition! It's almost unbelievable.

York woke up with the sun in his eyes to discover he had fallen asleep in his shirt again. He chuckled to himself as he sat up and started unbuttoning it. Probably best to pick out a new one for the day ahead. He found himself changing clothes by the open curtains without a second thought. There was never anyone out there. It wasn’t like the city.

As York wound a dark pink tie around his neck, he cast an eye around the room. He was still getting used to it, especially the idea that it was his. It made more sense to rent a place than keep living in the hotel, now that he had decided to stay on. Even if the still-new surroundings felt like swapping one hotel room for another.

“I still can’t help but miss that Great Deer Yard coffee, though,” he murmured to no-one in particular. “There was something special about it.”

“Are you talking to me?” A voice came through from the kitchen, and a smile spread over York’s face. Tightening the knot of his tie, he wandered into the other room, and saw her. Standing in front of his newly acquired stove, making a truly impressive mess out of pancake batter. Emily. She was wearing one of his old t-shirts, something he hadn’t even noticed he’d shoved into his suitcase when he packed for a trip to a small town he had never heard of. She turned towards him, her torso announcing tour dates for a Ramones cover band that had last played a venue in 2008. York planted a soft kiss on the tip of her nose.

“Breakfast seems to be going well,” he said dryly, staring at the bubbling quicksand escaping from its pan. Emily swatted his arm.

“At least I’m trying!” she laughed, turning back to tackle the monster she had given birth to. “When was the last time you cooked anything?”

“Criticism accepted.” York caught himself smiling at the back of her head as she probed the batter with an unlucky spatula. Having her here was still unfamiliar territory, like the rented house itself, but he was happy to have it. She came over almost every evening. Either that, or he went to her house, and they worked their way through her formidable collection of DVDs, mocking each other’s taste and flinging popcorn about the room. If they kept it up, he was going to ask her about making their arrangement permanent.

“I think this might be a lost cause…” Emily admitted with a sigh, taking a step back from her creation. York wasn’t going to argue. He put his hands on her waist, leaning over her shoulder to kiss her cheek.

“I’ll bring something from the diner,” he said. “You know how attached I am to my morning routine.”

There was familiar music playing on the car radio. Not familiar enough to name, but something, something he had heard before. He turned it up, trying to place the voice, but nothing clicked before reaching the diner. As he climbed out of the car, he saw Ushah standing around outside. He might as well have been waiting for him.

“There you are!” Ushah said, grinning as he approached. “Never one to miss out on a serving of saturated fat first thing in the morning, are you?”

“I didn’t order a lecture with it,” York said, half a smile spoiling the seriousness of his tone. Ushah patted him on the back. An easy friendship.

“Hey, how about this?” he said. “I won’t bore you with a lot of doctor’s opinions about your diet, and you promise not to make any more work for me. Sounds good?”

“Don’t worry, I’m not planning on it. I think we’ll both be happy with that.”

York waved goodbye to his friend and went inside the diner. The heavy door gave way to the smell of fresh bread and cleaning products. Olivia must have been wiping down the tables. He saw her, across the room, standing by the service window that opened into the kitchen. Nick was on the other side of it, leaning on his elbows. They were talking, and as York watched them, he saw Olivia cover her mouth to hide a giggle. She bent down to put a kiss across Nick’s smile, holding tight to the diner menus pressed against her chest.

“Oh, Agent York!” she said, sharp with embarrassment, as he found himself in front of her. “Let me get you a menu.”

“No need, Olivia. I’ll have the same as ever.” Her face was pink, glowing the same shade as a fresh pint of strawberry ice cream. York was amazed she was even listening, but she nodded. She excused herself, and he ended up meeting eyes with Nick across the space where she had been. The two men shared a brief acknowledgement, the wordless recognition of an equal happiness. They were lucky, and they knew it.

York backed up, waiting by the wall for his breakfast to appear. He realised, with the delayed observational skills of someone lost in their own thoughts, that he was standing next to Harry and his assistant. They must be waiting for the same reason, hanging around hoping for their hot food to materialise any moment. It would be rude to miss the chance to say hello to old friends.

“Good morning.”

“And to you,” Harry said, looking up at him with a level stare. The expression on his face was hard to read, but that was nothing new. The old man wasn’t used to letting people in.

“Mr. Francis York Morgan,” Michael said, with a small nod of his head, refusing to stray from his usual clipped tone.

“You’ll have to forgive my son,” Harry snorted. “He’s yet to grasp the art of conversation.” Michael stared at the floor and spun a lock of hair around his finger, embarrassed, before looking up again. He bit his lip and smiled, glancing between Harry and York.

“I hope you’re well,” he said quietly.

“I’m pleased to see you’re staying in Greenvale for the time being,” Harry told York. “Come over to see us sometime. There are a few things I’d like your opinion on.”

“My father and I appreciate all that you’ve done for this town. You have our support now that things have calmed down.”

“I’ll come visit soon, Harry,” York said, catching sight of Olivia coming his way. “Just make sure you have some coffee this time.” Leaving Harry’s dry laughter behind him, he met Olivia halfway to take the warm brown bag from her hand. He could hardly wait.

The smell of freshly baked dough reached out, invisible fingers luring him in. Irresistible, as ever. York sighed to himself as he settled the warm bag in his hands, wondering if he could get away with putting it in his jacket pocket.

“Everyone loves them,” Olivia told him, restating what he already knew. “We’re lucky if we can keep them in stock until lunch time!” No surprise there. The bag contained four of Thomas’ trademark biscuits, hot and soft and perfectly flaky. They had been for sale at the diner since, well, since sometime not too long ago. It was like a dream. York was just glad he didn’t have to go and bother Thomas for them directly. And he felt better now that he was paying for them.

It had been a few days since he’d gone to see Thomas. It might be worth making the trip. Now that they no longer worked together, he had to put in a little effort. Though it never seemed to feel like effort.

York was outside Thomas’ apartment before he knew it, the bag stowed away in his car, the diner disappeared. He knocked on the door, but the person who appeared a moment later was not who he expected.

“Yeah? What do you want?” Carol folded her arms across her chest, glaring at him. He thought she was, anyway. It wasn’t too different from her normal face.

“Is Thomas here?” York asked, friendly enough for the two of them.

“Have I not sent a clear enough message for you to fuck off?” Carol sighed, tossing her head to the side. York stood there, unsure of what to say next. There was a void between him and the answer. “Seriously,” Carol snapped. “Are you stupid, or just a glutton for punishment?” The two of them stared each other down, until Carol’s face broke into laughter, and she let her arms fall to her sides.

“You had me going, you know.”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m sure,” she laughed, stepping out of the way. “Go on in. Thomas is in the kitchen.”

York walked through, and sure enough, he could smell Thomas’ baking before he saw him. Keeping up with orders, he had to assume. Thomas was just bending down, taking a tray out of the oven, when he realised York was there.

“Oh!” he cried out. “It’s early! I didn’t expect you.” Thomas placed the tray carefully on a cooling rack and began tugging off his oven mitts. Pale yellow and dappled with flowers and bees. He adjusted his glasses, the lenses of which were blanked out with steam from the oven, before giving up and taking out a hankie to wipe them with.

“You look like someone who hasn’t finished their homework when the teacher comes to collect, Thomas,” York said, looking him over. Thomas was his usual immaculate self, even after running up and down the kitchen all morning, but his face gave him away.

“I’m a little frazzled,” Thomas admitted, with a weak smile. “But I’m happy! You should taste this.” York came as summoned, and let him spoon a hot mouthful of goo onto his tongue. Vanilla, chocolate, coffee. Perfection.

“Each batch is better than the last,” he said, and meant it. Thomas shied away from the compliment, hiding his face behind his cooking spoon. It didn’t work. His blush shone through, impossible to eclipse.

“It’s hard to keep up with orders, but I’m doing my best.” Thomas went back to stirring his next bowl of soon-to-be biscuits, periodically adding dribbles of milk. “It’s good for me, I think. It’s better this way.”

“You certainly seem to be glowing.” Thomas glanced over at him before hiding his face in his work. Even if everything else changed, he’d still stay shy.

“I’m just thankful you encouraged me,” Thomas said softly, stirring the mix. “Without you, I would never have left the sheriff’s department. It wasn’t good for me there. It didn’t suit me. This suits me much better.” York realised he was nodding and stopped. Watching Thomas’ spoon move back and forth in the same neat circle was hypnotic. He had to actively stop himself from following it.

“You’re doing what you love, and that’s all anyone should do,” he said, struggling to look up from the bowl. “The only person who’s missing out in all this is George.” As he said it, he felt a weight drop into his stomach. Something unexpected and familiar, like a flash of deja vu from a childhood punishment.

Thomas was staring at him, wide-eyed and afraid, an animal at the moment the trap closes around its leg. It was that last word. It had sent a ripple through the room, echoes through the air. They both felt it, the heaviness in their lungs, that made it hard to talk or even breathe.

“W-we don’t have to talk about that!” Thomas laughed, the unsettled sound of a child playing across piano keys. “We can talk about anything!” He threw his hands up, the spoon gone. Not in the batter. Not anywhere. Gone for good.

“Thomas…” York began, but how could he finish? What sort of question would he ask? Why this, why that. Why not forget the questions and just say sorry.

“We don’t even need to talk!” Thomas said, the same bubbling up and down, all over the place laughter. He fell against York, taken sideways by gravity, halfway off his feet. York, instinctually, wrapped his arms around him. He felt like a lifeguard, getting a good grip on a drowning swimmer. When he looked up, there was no surface, just ceiling. Nothing to swim for.

Thomas buried his face in York’s shoulder, digging his hands into his back. They dug into one another like burrowing insects, trying to make a home in the other’s flesh. But it was rock, all solid, all the way down, and they didn’t have the nails for it.

“You don’t have to go,” Thomas said. Over and over again. You don’t have to, you don’t have to, turning into a burble, then gasps, breathless gasps, last air in your lungs gasps.

“I won’t. I won’t go,” York promised, in that desperately sincere way that people promise lies. He promised it like he’d forgotten he wasn’t already out the door.

Thomas, the same words still pouring out of him, dripping from his mouth and eyes like fat tears, looked up at him. He put his hands on either side of York’s face, red nails tugging at his cheeks, struggling for purchase. His glasses blank with steam, taking his eyes from him, erasing his face.

“We can… we can… we can…” The gasps were that now, over and over, the same choking repetition. York joined in, turning the false promise into a conspiracy between them. A lie, split in half, that they were both telling and both wanted to believe.

Thomas pushed his forehead to York’s, with his voice buzzing like a radio, never losing the transmission. Then his lips, the two of them together, but the voice still just as clear. York heard his own voice through it all, outside and inside his head, threading itself through Thomas’ droning sobs, knotting them together. There was no time. It took forever. It ended too soon.

“I thought I told you to fuck off!” Carol snarled, lurching out of nowhere like a swinging axe. She yanked York away from Thomas. “Leave my brother alone! Are you stupid, or just a glutton for punishment?” York turned to face her, ready to argue without a single word in his head. He lost the little he had when he saw her.

Carol hunched her shoulders at him, her mouth open and dripping hot wet blood down the front of her dress. A nightmare he had seen before. She jabbed her hand against his chest, marking him with red polka dots, again, a third time, over and over.

“You!” she shouted, slurring, spitting chunks of her tongue across his front. “What’s the matter? Wasn’t I good enough? Wasn’t I worth saving? You didn’t even try! You could have called a doctor! You could have done _anything_!”

York stumbled away from Carol, but she matched him step for shaky step. He backed into the kitchen, searching for Thomas, but he was nowhere to be seen.

“It’s bad enough you didn’t give a shit about saving me, Mr. FBI, but why didn’t you save my brother? Why wasn’t _Thomas_ good enough for you?”

The kitchen backed up behind him foot after foot, never running out, never reaching a wall. York continued trying to back away, unsure if he was hoping to hit a wall or not. The whole thing was playing out without asking what he wanted, which was probably just as well. He had no idea.

“What about that, huh?” Carol spat. “Why didn’t you try harder? Why didn’t you save my friends?”

“Yeah, why didn’t you?”

York looked up, then down, spinning his head in search of the voice. He looked ahead, and they were in front of him, where Carol had been. Anna, Becky, and Diane. Split from throat to stomach. Cut up into venison.

“Why didn’t you help? Why didn’t you help? Why didn’t you help?” They all said it, they all said it over and over, circling and closing in on him. Six hands reached out, shoving him between them, spinning about him like a tumble dryer drum, spinning too fast to let him out. They grabbed at him, tearing at him, spitting blood and something else. Seeds. Red seeds, that clung to his jacket like burrs.

“George is the one who hurt you!” he found himself shouting, trying to be louder than all of them together. “Why aren’t you blaming him? He’s the one who did this.”

“Is that right?” York felt himself being yanked up by the arm, like he was the size of a child, or an unloved stuffed animal. He was pulled out of the circle and found himself face to face with George. The man himself. George, barely taller than him but still, somehow, the size of a house. He peered out of the shadows his hat cast across his face.

“George… it was you. I couldn’t stop you. You were the one. You did all of this.” George shushed his protests, giving him slack until York’s shoes dragged along the floor.

“What’s all this now?” he said, croaking like a giant frog. His voice echoed all around them, shaking the walls of Thomas’ stretched out apartment until they collapsed. “I thought we were _friends_ , Agent Morgan. Aren’t you my friend?”

“I tried, but you can’t expect me to take your side. Not after what you did.”

“So, that was just a lie? Everything you did was one big lie.” George cried crocodile tears down his warped face, the scar across his cheek rising and falling like a breathing chest. “You knew all along you would never be my friend. You were better than me. You decided that from the very beginning. I’m a joke. A small-town cliché. Nothing compared to the great Agent Morgan from the big city. From the great big FBI.”

George let out a sharp groan, dragging York by the arm in a semicircle, cutting through the carpet like they were skimming grass. York pulled on his arm, but George’s hand was a vice. He was forced to hear him out.

“We’re the same,” George said, staring into space, shrinking as he spoke. “We are. We come from the same place, and I want you to remember that. We come from violence, but we graduated different. You had people to hold your hands, wash your face. You could have had what I had. You could have been me. I want you to remember that. I want you to know how close we came to wearing each other’s’ clothes.” By the time he was done talking, they were standing eye to eye.

York flinched, and George moved closer, but York swept his arm out and sent him flying. Not backwards, but down, as if he’d walked out onto ice. George dissolved, leaving nothing behind, and York was alone in a circle of red. Red dresses, listing back and forth like a poppy field. He looked at them, Anna, Becky, Diane, Carol, Thomas. Dancing hand in hand in a circle, a swinging fairy ring. He waved his arm at them and smudged the paint. They dissolved, one by one, when he reached for them. He didn’t even need to make contact. They were all gone in an instant, lipstick prints on the back of his brain, reduced to ash.

He had to get back to Emily. It was too late for the others, but maybe not for her. He ran, struggling to swim forward and reaching her house in seconds. She was waiting for him inside. When he opened the door, the house unpeeled, boxing itself up. He stepped through the doorway and it closed behind him, leaving him standing on all that was left. A single square of kitchen tile, above a sea of seeds.

Emily stood in front of him in her uniform, her hands crossed at the wrists. She twitched from side to side, a schoolgirl spin, oddly cheerful for the situation they were in.

“We don’t have long,” she said, and he knew she was right. He realised it in retrospect, something he had known all along and swallowed down, denying it so completely that it had been erased.

York wrapped his arms tight around her, smothering himself in her hair. He breathed her in, half-smelling her shampoo, a sense communicated down a telephone line. Right there, but distant all the same. He held her tight, screwed his eyes as shut as could be, and when he let himself peek, he could see her house around them. Just as it should be. It didn’t last long. The walls flickered, in and out, bad reception. It wouldn’t stay still.

He wouldn’t let go of Emily. He didn’t think he could anymore. They were glued together. Fused into one. Her clothes blinked back and forth, sheriff’s uniform, blue dress, his t-shirt as pyjamas, long red gown. Flicking from one to another, changing channels in a hurry. Infinite possibilities, thousands of moments, all going by like the scene outside a car window.

“It would have been nice,” Emily sighed into his shoulder.

“It is. It is nice,” he insisted.

“It would have been nice if it worked out. It would have been nice. It would have been nice if it worked out. Even if it didn’t work out for anyone else, it still would have been nice…”

York squeezed her tight in his arms. He squeezed until her bones should have broken, trying to stop her switching clothes, switching moments, switching stolen, lost to time possibilities. Switching between all the times they’d had together and the ones he’d hoped for next. He squeezed her tight until she dissolved in his arms. He couldn’t hold on tight enough.

York stumbled backwards, letting his arms gape open, amazed and horrified and all too unsurprised that there was nothing there. There was nothing left. Nothing but him.

Zach woke up alone. He waited a moment, but the dream didn’t fade away. It stayed clear and crisp like a memory. Probably because it was, in a way. Just a patchwork quilt of memories and regret.

He got up slowly, stretching his sore back, and went to make himself some coffee. He was in his own apartment, a place he knew well despite how little time he spent there. A home that had never felt like home. He rattled from drawer to drawer, hunting down a mug, a spoon, coffee granules.

He had the dream, or one like it, a lot. It usually played out like this, but sometimes it was Thomas making pancakes in the morning. Emily who tried to climb inside him to have somewhere to hide. Sometimes it skipped them. Sometimes they were already dead. He’d been home for months now, and it kept happening, almost every night.

Work would be a good distraction, but the FBI were wary to send him out on anything big. Too soon, that was all he kept hearing. Too soon. Take some time. Relax. How was he supposed to do that, exactly? His brain refused to get the memo.

He wondered why it was always York in the dreams. Before, when they had still been together, they tended to dream together. The two of them there, on whatever adventure it was that night. It made sense in a way, for it to be York. He had been the one in charge in Greenvale. Still, Zach was thankful for one small mercy. He always woke up before York realised he was just as dead as everyone else.

The dreams would have to stop sometime, he thought, absently putting the coffee spoon between his lips. Nothing lasted forever. Though, maybe that wasn’t altogether true. There were always some things you could never shake. The things we save, somewhere inside of ourselves, our whole lives long. Zach knew that this was going to be one of those things. He just wanted to stop dreaming it every damn night.

Would he still be having the dreams a year from now? How about five years? Ten…?

Ten years. That was a hell of a thing to think about. Zach had no idea where he would find himself ten years on, tens years separated from what had happened in Greenvale. What he did know, what he couldn’t escape knowing, was that what had happened would still be with him then. Just as fresh in his mind, just as clear. Clear as a crisp spring morning.


End file.
